The Landower Legacy

NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS

I had come to Paris with the Rushtons as we had arranged, and they had very kindly seen me onto the train which was to make its journey to the South of France.

It was difficult to believe that so much was happening to me. The journey did not bother me. Going away to school had given me a certain self-reliance, and this was not my first visit to France, although I was scarcely a seasoned traveller.

As I looked out of the train window I kept telling myself that I must put behind me all that had happened. I must start a fresh life. I might well discover that my true place was with my parents. I was romancing again.

I think what had shocked me almost as much as the knowledge that it was not me but my inheritance that Jeremy had wanted, was what I had just heard of the man whom I had believed to be my father. I could not keep out of my mind the picture of him on that bed. I could understand his need for sexual satisfaction but not his hypocrisy. How could he make those speeches about fallen women when he himself was indulging in the practices he pretended to deplore?

“There’s lots like him,” Rosie had said, and Rosie knew men.

And Jeremy? I would never forget opening that letter and realizing that I had been living in a fantasy world.

But it was over. I had to start again.

And here I was speeding through the French countryside …past farms, buildings, fields, rivers, hills. At least I was going to my mother and she wanted to see me. I thought of Captain Carmichael. He would be with her, I supposed, and the thought of that cheered me. I had been fascinated by him when I was young, and not at all displeased to discover that he was my father.

It seemed a long journey. Miss Bell would have said: “France is a big country, much bigger than our own.” I smiled fleetingly. Miss Bell would have known the exact proportions.

That was long ago—in the past. I had to turn my back on all that life—stop thinking of it, because when I did I could only see those two deceivers—Jeremy Brandon and Robert Tressidor.

When I arrived at the station and left the train a trap was waiting for me.

I was told that Madame Tressidor was expecting me, and that the journey was not very long.

My fluent French was a great help to me, and my driver was delighted that I could speak the language. He pointed out the line of mountains in the distance and told me that beyond them was the sea.

We stopped before a house. It was white—neither big nor very small. There were balconies at two of the windows in the front and bougainvillea made a colourful purple splash against the walls.

As I alighted a woman came out of the house.

“Everton!” I cried.

“Welcome, Miss Caroline,” she said.

I took her hand and in my excitement would have kissed her, but Everton drew back, reminding me of her place.

“Madame is glad that you were coming,” she said. “This isn’t one of her good days … but she wants to see you as soon as you arrive.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little deflated. I had expected my mother or Captain Carmichael to be waiting to greet me, though I was glad, of course, to see the familiar Everton.

“Come on in, Miss Caroline. Oh, there’s your baggage.”

The driver helped carry it into a tiled hall.

I thanked him, gave him some coins, and he touched his cap. Everton was coolly aloof.

There was a bowl of flowers on the table in the hall and their pungent scent hung in the air.

“This is a very small establishment,” Everton explained. “We only have one domestique—as they call them here—and a man for the garden twice a week. You’ll find it very different from …”

“Yes, I suppose so. May I see my mother now?”

“Yes, come up.”

I was taken up a staircase and into a room. The shutters were closed and it was dark.

“Miss Caroline is here,” said Everton. “I’ll open the shutters, shall I, just a little?”

“Oh yes. And are you really there, my darling? Oh, Caroline!”

“Mama!” I cried, and running to the bed threw myself into her arms.

“My dear child, it is wonderful to see you. But you will find everything here … so different.”

“You’re here and I’m here,” I said. “I like the difference.”

“It is so wonderful that you are here.”

Everton went quietly to the door. She looked at me for a moment and said: “You must not tire her.” Then she went out.

“Mama,” I said, “are you ill?”

“My dear, let us not talk of unpleasant things. Here you are and you are going to stay with me for a while. You can’t imagine how I have longed to see you.”

I thought: Then why didn’t you make an effort to do so? But I said nothing.

“I used to say to Everton, if only I could see my girls … Caroline particularly. Of course, you see how I live now … in penury.”

“I thought it seems a very pleasant house. The flowers are lovely.”

“I’m so poor, Caroline. I could never really adjust myself to poverty. Did you know we have only one domestique and one gardener … and not full time at that.”

“I know, Everton told me. But you have her.”

“How could I do without her?”

“Apparently you don’t have to. She seems as devoted as ever.”

“She’s a bit of a tyrant. Good servants often are. She treats me as though I’m a baby. Of course, I suffer quite a lot. There is so much I miss. This is not London, Caroline.”

“That is obvious.”

“When you think of what life was before …”

“Mama,” I said, “what of Captain Carmichael?”

“Oh Jock … poor Jock. He couldn’t stand it, you know. It was idyllic in the beginning. We didn’t seem to mind the poverty at first. We neither of us had been used to it, you know.”

“But you were in love. You had each other.”

“Oh yes. We were in love. But there was nothing to do here. For me … nothing. For him, too. No racing. He loved the races. And then, of course, there was his career … the Army.”

“He gave all that up … for you.”

“Yes. It was sweet of him. And for a while it was wonderful … even here. Your father … I mean my husband … so vindictive. You know all about that now, I gather, from Mr. Cheviot. He’s been a good friend. He looked after everything, you know. He sends the money regularly. I don’t know what I should do without that. My income from my father is infinitesimal. Jock had very little apart from his soldier’s pay, and you know, that’s not much. He was always in debt. No one should attempt to hold a commission in the Queen’s regiments unless he has a good income.”

“But what happened? Where is he now?”

She took a lace handkerchief from under her pillow and held it to her eyes. “He’s gone. He died. It was in India. It was some awful disease he caught there. He had to resign his commission, you see. Poor darling, it was all because of the scandal, you know. He went out there. He was going into some sort of business with people he knew. He was going to make a lot of money and come back to me. But the Army was the only thing he really wanted to do. The Carmichaels were all soldiers. He’d been brought up to it. But he used to say it was all worth while … in the beginning.”

“And he died!” I couldn’t believe that laughing charming man, whose company had been so delightful, was dead. “It is such a short while ago really. Only four years … the Jubilee, you remember. But so much has happened that it seems like an age.”

“Four years … is that all? Four years ago and I was in London. There was so much to do there. Do you know, I have had hardly any new clothes since I have been here. One would have to go to Paris. Such a journey. Of course, Everton is good … but what do we know of the fashions down here?”

“I suppose that is the last thing you have to worry about.”

“We came here. We had to get out of England. That was one of Robert’s conditions. He wouldn’t have us there. He made me a small allowance on condition that I did not see you girls. That broke my heart. Particularly because of you, Caroline. Olivia was his daughter. I hated him, Caroline. I didn’t want to marry him. He was the catch of the season … or one of them. So rich, you see, already making a name for himself. Well, he decided he would marry me as soon as he saw me, and although I would have preferred someone else, I had to take him. It was expected of me and everyone said how lucky I was. Oh Caroline, I can’t tell you how I hated him. I could not bear all that goodness. Do you know, he used to kneel by the bed before getting into it, praying for God’s blessing on our union, and then … and then … but you wouldn’t understand, Caroline.”

I thought of the man visiting Mrs. Crawley’s lying naked in the bed, waiting for Rosie and I said: “Yes, Mama, I think I do.”

“Bless you, my darling. Well, now you are here. I don’t know how I go on living here. It’s been so dull … ever since Jock went … and even before. There is nothing to do. If only I could go back to London. If only I had the money. When I think of all Robert had, I realize what a fool I’ve been. I had endured it for years … and only another four to go. Then I should be there … where I long to be.”

I said: “It is very beautiful here. The scenery, coming down in the train, was quite dramatic.”

“I’m bored with scenery, dear. What can you do with mountains and trees and flowers, except look at them?”

“What of your health, Mama?”

“Oh my dear, a dismal subject! I have to rest every day. I don’t get up until ten. Then I will sit in the garden until luncheon and after that I rest.”

“And in the evening?”

“Dull! Dull!”

“Are there no people around? Are you quite isolated?”

“There are people. They are very dull, though. I can’t grasp their tiresome language very well. Did you see the chateau as you came in from the station?”

“No. So there is a chateau, is there?”

“Yes. The Dubusson family. At first I thought that might be interesting. The Dubussons are very old. Madame looks about ninety; there is a son and his wife—rather dismal. It’s very run-down. They seem quite poor. Like fanning people. Quite hospitable, though. I sometimes visit and they have come here. There are one or two families in other houses scattered about. Then there are people who grow flowers and make perfume. And the town is a mile and a half away. So you see how we are situated.”

“Olivia wanted to come and see you.”

“Poor Olivia! How is she?”

“Very much the same as ever.”

“She was never attractive, poor child. I used to wonder how I had given birth to her. Of course she takes after her father.”

“Oh no! Olivia is a wonderful person.”

“That was what was said of her father.”

I found it hard to remain silent. I was beginning to sum up the situation. I was seeing my mother as I had never seen her before. In my childhood she had been one of the goddesses who populated my world. Now I had cast aside my illusions. I looked life straight in the face and I was feeling more and more depressed every moment.

Everton came up after a while because she thought my mother would be tired. She showed me to my room. It was rather lofty and the walls were white: windows opened onto a wrought-iron balcony. I went to this and gasped at the beauty of the scenery. In the early evening light the distant mountains looked as though they had been tinted blue. Flowers grew in abundance—rich purple, red and blue. Their scent filled the air.

I thought it was beautiful and I imagined my mother and Captain Carmichael coming here to live out an idyllic dream—and finding the reality not quite what they had hoped for.

Their love had not lasted. It was an old story. But at least, he had given up all for her, even though he did regret it afterwards and went away.

As for her, there was no doubt of her regrets.

I unpacked my bags and hung up my clothes. I changed and went down to dinner.

My mother had risen for this and she wore a pink silk dressing-gown over her night attire. She looked very romantic with her chestnut hair loose. It hadn’t quite the same highlights as it had had once and I wondered practically whether Everton had difficulty in obtaining the necessary lotions here.

There was a courtyard attached to the house. It was beautiful, with clumps of bougainvillea growing from the walls. There was a table here and I saw that generally meals were eaten out of doors.

It could have been enchanting, but my mother did not see it so. All she saw was the social gaiety of a life she had lost and to which she longed to return.

When I went to bed that night I felt lost and depressed.

I thought longingly of Tressidor Manor and how different it would have been if I had accepted Cousin Mary’s invitation.

It is amazing how quickly one can settle into a new way of life. I found my surroundings so beautiful, so peaceful that they gave a certain balm to my wounded spirit. I could sit in the garden and read; I could sew a little, for Everton was continually at work on my mother’s clothes and glad of a helping hand. I could meditate on life and think at least nature was beautiful. I wished that Olivia had come with me. It would have been pleasant to talk to her. But I could not imagine myself telling her what Rosie had told me. After all, he had been her father. Nor could I talk to her of Jeremy Brandon. I never wanted to think of him again. All the same we could have been together, and Olivia was one of the few people for whom I had much regard these days. I had become cynical.

My mother noticed it. “You’ve grown up a lot, Caroline,” she said to me one evening as we dined in the courtyard. “You’re attractive in an unusual way. It’s those green eyes. They never used to be so green. They look as if they see into the dark.”

“They see into people’s dark secrets perhaps.”

She shrugged her shoulders. She never wanted to probe into people’s thoughts; she was completely absorbed in her own.

“Well,” she said, “you should have emeralds … earrings, pendants … They would bring out the green. And you should wear a lot of green. Everton was saying that she would like to dress you. You do well to dress your hair high on your head like that. It’s right for your high forehead. Everton said she wouldn’t have guessed high foreheads could be so attractive. It makes you look older, but it gives you something. You’re not pretty but you look … interesting.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad I’m not quite insignificant.”

“You never were that. Unlike poor Olivia. So the child has not yet had a proposal. I wonder if she ever will. And you … you were spoken for without coming out!”

“My expected inheritance was spoken for, Mama, not me.”

She nodded. “Well, you can’t blame these impecunious young men. We all have to live.”

“I would rather live on my own efforts if I were a young man,” I said.

“But you are not, and in some ways you are very unworldly. It is a mercy you have that small income, but it is a pittance really. Robert Tressidor was a very mean man.”

Oddly enough I went in to defend him. “He has made you an allowance.”

“Another pittance! It could have been so much more and would have made no difference to him whatsoever. He was so afraid that Jock would benefit from his money so he gave me just enough to keep me on survival level … and he only did that because he wanted to keep up his image as a good man.”

“It’s all long ago. It’s lovely here. Let’s forget about it.”

“It’s so dull,” she moaned and lapsed into melancholy, contemplating the lost social whirl.

Sometimes Jacques the gardener would take his trap into the little town and I would go with him. I would wander round while he did what business he had to, and I would meet him at a specified time where he had left the trap. I enjoyed going into the little shops and chatting with the people; there was the inevitable cafe with the tables outside and I could sit there among the pots of flowering shrubs and drink a cup of coffee or an aperitif.

I often thought how much I could have enjoyed this in the days before what I called my awakening.

I had become clear-sighted. I saw my mother as she really was—a selfish woman who took refuge in imaginary illness to relieve the boredom which came from a shallow mind.

I wondered how much she had cared for Jock Carmichael. I wished I could have known him better, for I felt we might have meant something to each other. I could well understand his regrets, his need to get away. He had at least given up his career for the sake of love—the reverse really of Jeremy Brandon.

I would take strolls through the beautiful countryside. Often I walked the one and a half miles into the town. The shopkeepers began to know me and I found the recognition pleasant. They would call to me; they found it interesting to chat to me. My knowledge of French being fairly good, I could still amuse them with my occasional misuse of their language. I grew to know many of them. There was the woman who sold her vegetables on a stall every Wednesday when she came in from a village four miles away; girls at the cafe; the boulanger who raked the long crusty loaves out of the oven in his shop and served them hot to his waiting customers; the modiste who aped her Paris counterpart by showing only one hat in her window; the couturiere who crammed hers full of her creations; and even the man in the quincaillerie where I once went with the domestique to buy a saucepan.

Living in a small house brought us closer together and I became on more intimate terms with the servants there than I ever had been in London—with the exception of Rosie, of course. I could imagine the disapproval which would have been expressed by Mrs. Winch or Wilkinson if I had sat in the kitchen having long chats with the servants as I did with Marie, the domestique, or in the garden with Jacques.

But I felt these people were my friends and I wanted to learn as much about them as I could.

Marie had been “crossed in love” and I shared her chagrin. He had been a bold and dashing soldier who had stayed in the town for a few months with his regiment. He had promised to marry her and then he had gone away and left her. After she had talked to me about him she would be heard singing a melancholy dirge:

“Ou t’en vas-tu, soldat de France, Tout equipe, pret au combat? Plein de courage et d’esperance, Ou t’en vas-tu, petit soldat?”

She forgot him after a while and treated us to other melodies like “Au Claire de la Lune” and “Il Pleut Bergere,” for she was not melancholy by nature.

I was not sure when this romance had flourished, for she was at this time near the end of her thirties, I imagined, and she was far from prepossessing, with a faint moustache and several missing teeth. But she was a conscientious worker, good-hearted and very sentimental. I grew fond of her.

I also had a certain friendship with Jacques. He was a widower of three years’ standing; he had six children, several of whom contributed to his support. Most of them lived nearby. He was now courting a widow who was something of a catch because she had inherited ten hectares of very good arable land, left her by her late husband.

I asked every time I saw him how his courtship was progressing. He would always pause and consider, shaking his head. “Widows, Mademoiselle,” he would say, “are very funny creatures. You never know how to take a widow.”

“I am sure you are right, Jacques,” I said.

They were pleased that I was there. Neither my mother nor Everton had ever taken an interest in them—except to give orders. When I spoke to my mother of Marie’s faithless lover and Jacques’ widow she had no notion of what I was talking about and when I explained she said: “You are quaint, Caroline. Of what interest can all that possibly be to you?”

I said: “They are people, Mama. They have their lives just as we have. In London the servants were so much apart. In a small household like this we are closer. It is good in a way. It makes us aware of them … as people.”

It was an unfortunate remark.

“Ah, London,” she sighed. “How different.”

And then she was sunk in melancholy, remembering.

I soon became acquainted with some of our neighbours. I visited the flower growers and saw how they distilled their essences and heard how they sold them to the parfumeurs all over France. It was very interesting. They had acres and acres on which they grew their flowers and I was amazed to discover how many were needed to produce one small flagon of perfume.

The scent of the jasmine was exquisite. They told me they gathered it in July and August but there was a second flowering in October, which was when the flowers were really at their best.

The roses, from which they made attar of roses, were wonderful.

The Claremonts employed several people from the town who came riding in on their bicycles in the early morning. I often saw them going home after the day’s work.

I soon made the acquaintance of the Dubussons. I found them charming. It was true that their chateau was somewhat dilapidated. There were chickens in one of the courtyards and it really was more like a farmhouse than a castle. True, it had the usual pepper-pot towers, which gave it an air of dignity, and the Dubussons were as proud of their home as the Landowers and Tressidors were of theirs.

I would sit in the big salon drinking wine with Monsieur and Madame Dubusson, and they would tell me how times had changed since the days of their grandeur. Their son and his wife were with them and they were very hard-working. Sometimes the family visited us and we were invited to the chateau. Then my mother would wear one of her exquisite gowns; Everton would spend a long time doing her hair and they would try to pretend it was like one of the old engagements which my mother had had in such abundance in the old days.

The Dubussons kept an excellent table, and Monsieur Dubusson liked a game of cards. We played a sort of whist. Monsieur Dubusson enjoyed a game of piquet—and so did my mother—but as only two could play at that, it was not one of the games which took place in the evening. Often I went over to see them in the afternoon and he and I would play piquet together, or a little chess, which he liked better. I had learned the rudiments of the game when I was at school in France and he liked to instruct me.

But although I could find plenty to occupy me, I was beginning to feel somewhat restless. I was thinking more and more of Cornwall and I wondered a great deal about the Landowers and how they liked living in their comparatively humble farmhouse. I wrote to Cousin Mary and told her that I should love to come and see her one day.

Her reply was enthusiastic. When was I coming?

I had been three months with my mother. Autumn had come, and I was thinking more and more longingly of Cornwall. I wrote to Cousin Mary and told her that I would come at the beginning of October.

I was quite surprised when I told my mother what I had done.

“Going away from me!” she cried. “Caroline, I shall miss you.”

“Oh, Mama,” I protested. “You’ll get along very well without me.”

“You like it, do you, with Cousin Mary? I always heard she was something of an ogre.”

“She can be a little gruff, but when you get to know her you understand the sort of person she is. I grew very fond of her.”

“Robert disliked her intensely.”

“That was because she had the house … her rightful property.”

“It has been so wonderful for me to have you here.”

I said nothing, and when I looked up I saw the tears were falling down her cheeks.

Everton said to me: “Your mother will miss you. She has been so much better since you came.”

“Was she very bad before?”

“She has cheered up wonderfully.”

“She is not really ill, Everton.”

“There is a sickness of the mind, Miss Caroline. She pines for the life she has left, and I am afraid she will always do so.”

“But was she really contented when she was there?”

“She loved that life … all the people … all the admiration. It was everything to her.”

“But she left it.”

“For the Captain. It was a great mistake. But she would never have gone if she had not been forced to do so.”

The old guilt I had felt came surging back. I was the one who had carelessly betrayed her. If I had not met Robert Tressidor on the stairs and blurted out that I had seen the runaway horse, she might still have been in London, a rich woman. Captain Carmichael might not have died, but could be pursuing his career in the Army.

But I said: “But there is nothing I can do, Everton. I can only remind her of the past.”

“She has been better since you came,” persisted Everton.

She, like my mother, was trying to persuade me not to go.

My mother said: “I tell Everton that young people must live their own lives. One cannot expect sacrifices from the young. That is what I tell her.”

But they expected me to stay and I began to ask myself whether it was not my duty to do so.

In the quiet of my bedroom I admonished myself. Be sensible. You can do nothing here. The only good that can be done must come from herself. If she will stop yearning for the glitter of society, if she will interest herself in the life around her, she could be as well as she ever was.

No, I would not be foolish. Cousin Mary was expecting me to go to Cornwall—and I was going.

I had written several times to Olivia. I wrote in detail of the people around me. Her letters were affectionate and she expressed an eagerness to know of my experiences.

She was amused by Marie and Jacques, and loved hearing of the Dubussons and the perfume makers.

I told her that I was going to Cornwall to see Cousin Mary and that on my return from France I should have to stay in London. Perhaps I could be with her for a few days then.

That brought back a delighted reply. She longed to see me.

As the day for my departure grew nearer the air of melancholy in the house increased. My mother spent more time in bed and I often came upon her shedding tears. I felt very uncomfortable.

My bags were packed. I had said goodbye to the Claremonts and the Dubussons. In two days’ time I should be on my way.

I promised my mother that I would come back to see her before long.

It was the evening of that day. I had been for a walk into the town and taken a last farewell of all my friends and had walked back to the house. I was washing and changing for dinner when Marie came bursting into my room.

“It is Madame,” she cried. “She is very ill. Mademoiselle Everton says will you go to her at once.”

I hurried to my mother’s bedroom. She was lying back in bed, her eyes tightly closed, her face colourless. I had never seen her look like that before.

“Everton,” I said, “what is it?”

She said to Marie: “Ask Jacques to go at once for the doctor.”

We sat by her bed. My mother opened her eyes and was aware of me. “Caroline,” she said weakly, “so you are still here. Thank God.”

“Yes, I’m here, Mama. Of course I’m here.”

“Don’t … leave me.”

Everton was watching me intently and my mother closed her eyes.

“How long has she been like this?” I whispered.

“I came up to help her dress for dinner. I found her lying there"

“What can it be?”

“I wish the doctor would hurry,” said Everton.

It was not long before I heard the sound of his carriage wheels on the road.

He came in—a little man, very much the country doctor. I had met him once at the Dubussons’.

He took my mother’s pulse, examined her and shook his head gravely.

“Perhaps she has had a shock?” he suggested. He looked so knowledgeable on such a brief examination that I began to suspect his efficiency.

Both Everton and I followed him out of the room.

He said: “She needs rest … and peace. She must have no stress, you understand? You are sure she has not had a shock?”

“Well,” said Everton, “she was upset because Miss Tressidor was leaving us.”

“Ah,” said the doctor wisely. “That is so, eh?”

“I came on a visit,” I said, “and that visit is coming to an end.”

He nodded gravely. “She needs care,” he said. “I shall come tomorrow.”

We escorted him to his carriage.

Everton looked at me expectantly.

“Could you not stay a little longer … until she recovers?”

I did not answer.

I went back to my mother’s room. She lay there pale and wan, but she was aware of me.

“Caroline,” she said weakly. “I’m here, Mama.” “Stay … stay with me.”

That night I slept little. I could not help thinking of my mother lying there on her bed, looking quite unlike herself. At first I had thought that she had feigned illness, and I still had a feeling that this was so. And yet I was not sure. How could I be?

What if I went away? What if she were really ill and died. Did people die of nostalgia? It was not so much that she wanted me. She had done very well without me for the greater part of her life. She felt none of the passionate attachment some mothers have for their children. I could see that my coming had enlivened her days to a certain extent. We played piquet now and then in the evenings and that passed the time— that and the endless talk of the old days.

Yet how could I be sure? It was through my action that her husband had turned her out of his house. Could I be responsible for her death as well?

I did not sleep until dawn and when I awoke I had made up my mind.

I could not go … yet.

I wrote letters to Cousin Mary and Olivia, explaining that my mother had been taken suddenly ill and I must stay with her a little longer.

When I told Everton what I had done, her face was illuminated with pleasure. I felt relieved. My mind was made up.

I went to my mother’s room. Everton was already there. She had told my mother.

“She will get well now,” said Everton.

“Caroline, my darling,” cried my mother. “So … so you are not going to leave me?”

I sat by her bed holding her hand and I felt as though a trap were closing round me.

My mother recovered slowly, but for a while she was more of an invalid than she had ever been. Dr. Legrand visited her often and had an air of complacency which suggested he believed he had brought about a miraculous cure.

Cousin Mary wrote to say that she hoped my visit would not be postponed for too long and Olivia expressed her regrets that she was not going to see me and that her mother was ill. She would have liked to come out but Aunt Imogen was against it; she thought she might come later on.

I was now planning to leave at Christmas, but every time I hinted at it such gloom pervaded the house that I decided to say nothing, but to make my plans and then announce my imminent departure.

I was not so gullible as not to believe that my mother’s indisposition had been in a great measure produced by herself. On the other hand she was a woman of fierce desires and there was no doubt that frustration could make people ill.

I wanted nothing more on my conscience; and on the other hand I thought longingly of Cornwall.

I admonished myself that I was falling into my old habit of building up a fantasy world. What was there so different about Lancarron compared with this little French village?

The days began to pass quickly. The long evenings had come. We no longer ate in the courtyard. Marie lit the oil lamps and we spent evenings playing piquet or looking through the press cuttings which Everton had pasted into a book; but that, of course, could often end in melancholy so I always tried for piquet.

I began to wonder what I should do with my life. Could I take some sort of post? What could I do? What did impoverished gentlewomen do? They became governesses or companions; there was little else for them. I could see myself as a companion to someone like my mother … spending a lifetime playing piquet or listening to reminiscences of past glories.

I was restive. I wanted to get away.

Then the bombshell came in the form of a letter from Olivia.

“My dear Caroline,

“I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know what you will think. It has been going on for some time and I have often been on the point of telling you and have decided against it. But you will have to know sometime.

“I am engaged to be married.

“You know they never thought I would be, but it has happened. I could be very happy, but for one thing. Oh, I don’t know what you will think of me, but I have to do it, Caroline. You see, I love him. I always have … even when he was engaged to you.

“Yes, it is Jeremy. He was very sad when your engagement had to be broken. He has told me all about it. He did realize though that he was completely fascinated by you but it was not really lasting love. He discovered that in time. He felt you were too young to know your own mind. Before, you know, he had noticed me, but when you came along he saw only you. He really loves me now, Caroline. I know he does. And I could never be happy without him. So we are going to be married.

“Aunt Imogen is delighted. But she insists that we wait till a year after my father’s death before the marriage can take place. And then it will be very quiet.

“Caroline, I hope you will have got over all that by now. I hope you won’t hate and despise me for this. But I do truly love him and did even when he was engaged to you.

“He would be very happy if you could forgive him.

“Dear Caroline, do try to understand.

“Your ever loving sister, Olivia.”

I was stunned when I read that letter.

The barefaced effrontery! The toad! The snake! I said: “Jeremy Brandon, how can you be so despicable? You were determined to enjoy Robert Tressidor’s fortune, weren’t you? And if you could not get it through one sister, you would through the other.”

I began to laugh bitterly, wildly; and my laughter was near to tears.

I sat down and thought of how different it might have been. I saw myself in that little house in Knightsbridge. How happy I might have been if he had been different, if he had been the man I had believed him to be—not just another of my fantasies!

I could not face anyone yet. I wanted to shut myself away. I went out of the house and walked for miles. I could not bear to talk to anyone for fear I should betray my fury, my resentment, my bitter, bitter anger.

I felt no better when I returned home.

I sat down and wrote a letter to Olivia.

“How can you be so gullible? Don’t you see him for the fortune hunter he is? He is not marrying you. He is marrying your father’s money. Of course he transferred his affections to you. He thought I should have a share of the money, that was why he fell so passionately in love. He’s in love all right … but not with you, dear sister, any more than he was with me. He is in love with money.

“Olivia, for heaven’s sake don’t ruin your life by giving way to this schemer …”

And so on in such a strain.

Fortunately I did not post that letter.

That evening I had to talk of it. I supposed my mother would be informed in due course of her daughter’s proposed marriage.

She had not noticed that I was different, though it must have been obvious. Marie had asked if I felt quite well. But my mother never saw anything that did not relate directly to herself.

I said: “Olivia is engaged.”

“Olivia! At last! I thought she never would be. Who is the man?”

“You’ll never guess. It is Jeremy Brandon who was engaged to me until he heard that your husband was not my father and consequently had left me nothing. Then his affections declined. However, they have now settled on Olivia, who can keep him in that state to which he aspires.”

“Well,” she said, “at least it is a husband for Olivia.”

“Mama,” I cried reproachfully, “how can you talk so?”

She replied: “It’s the way of the world.”

“Then I want no part of that world.”

“But you are part of it.”

“It is not the whole world. I do not want to live among the bargain hunters.”

She sighed. “What can an impecunious young man do? You wouldn’t have been happy living in poverty. Look at me.”

“Do you not believe in love, Mama?”

She was quiet for a moment, looking into the past, seeing no doubt the handsome Captain. But even his own love had not survived the lack of money. That was what had made love turn cold for her more surely than another woman could have done.

“I’ve no doubt Olivia is delighted,” she said. “Poor child. She didn’t have many chances, did she? She’ll be happy enough and glad, no doubt, that it all turned out as it did.”

I hated her view of life and yet … I knew she was right when she said Olivia would be happy.

I could see my sister going through life seeing only good and being unaware of evil.

I could not destroy her illusions.

I went to my room that night and tore up the letter I had written to her.

But I felt the bitterness eating into my soul. I hated Jeremy Brandon a hundred times more than I had done before.

The Dubussons were giving a dinner party to which we were invited and although my mother despised their “little evenings,” as she called them, they did relieve the monotony and she would prepare herself for them—or rather Everton prepared her—with as much care as she had bestowed upon her London engagements.

She and Everton would be in close conference for a day or so deciding what she would wear, and her toilette would engross them both for several hours before our departure.

“Just a friendly little party,” Madame Dubusson had said. “A gathering of neighbours. The Claremonts have some important business client staying with them and I have asked them to bring him along.”

My mother certainly looked very beautiful when we were ready. She was wearing a gown of her favorite lavender colour and her delicately tinted skin and shining hair accentuated her beauty. She looked much as she had when we were in London and I thought, If a Dubusson dinner party can do this, she would soon be perfectly well if she could once again enter fashionable society.

Everton had insisted on doing my hair and I had to admit that she had done it very well. She had brushed it with a hair brush covered with some special silk and then piled it high on my head. She had selected an emerald brooch, belonging to my mother, which she had put on my grey gown; and Everton certainly knew what she was about.

The Dubussons had sent one of their somewhat decrepit old carriages for us. I saw my mother’s distaste as she seated herself and I had to remind her that it was good of the Dubussons to provide transport for us as we had none of our own; all the same her expression did not change when we entered the courtyard of the chateau, and she caught sight of a hen perched on one of the walls.

Madame Dubusson greeted us warmly. The guests were ourselves, Dr. Legrand and the Claremonts with their visitor.

“We all know each other,” announced Madame Dubusson, “except Monsieur Foucard.”

Monsieur Foucard came forward and bowed gravely. He was, I should say, in his middle fifties; he had a little goatee beard and sparkling dark eyes. His luxuriant hair was almost black and he was dressed with such elegance that one was immediately reminded of the lack of that quality in the other men.

He was somewhat fulsome. He was clearly rather startled by my mother’s good looks, which seemed to imply that he did not expect to find such elegance in this country community. He was equally gracious to me.

Madame Dubusson said we should have an aperitif and then dinner would be served.

It was clear that Monsieur Foucard was the guest of honour. He had a presence. There was no doubt of that. He had a way, too, of monopolizing the conversation. He seated himself between my mother and me and addressed himself mainly to us.

His stay was, alas, to be brief, he told us, and he was already regretting that. His eyes lingered on my mother. She seemed to sparkle; this was the sort of attention she so desperately needed. I was glad that she was enjoying this so much.

“You are a man of affairs,” said my mother. “Oh, I do not mean affairs of the heart. I mean business affairs.”

He laughed heartily, his eyes shining with admiration.

It was true, he admitted. He had business all over France. It meant travelling a good deal. Yes, he was in the perfume business. What a business! He had been brought up in it. “It is the nose, Mesdames. This nose.” He indicated his own somewhat prominent feature. “I was able to detect all the subtleties of good perfume almost as a baby. At an early age I learned of the wonderful perfumes which could be made to suit beautiful women. I knew that the best cedar wood came from the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, and the essential oil we get from cedar wood is invaluable to give that tang … shall I say to set a scent … It’s a fixative.”

“It’s fascinating!” cried my mother. “Do tell me more.”

He was only too ready, and although he turned to me now and then and addressed the occasional remark in my direction, I could see he was carried away by my mother’s mature charms.

I knew why my mother always found an immediate masculine response. She was entirely feminine. She looked frail and helpless; her large brown eyes appealed for protection; she put on an air of innocence, of ignorance, in order to flatter masculine superiority, and they loved her for it. What man would not feel himself growing in stature to be appealed to by such an enchanting creature?

She was now looking at him as though all her life she had been longing to discover the facts about the manufacture of perfume.

Madame Dubusson and the Claremonts were delighted to see that their important guest was enjoying the company so intensely.

The food was always excellent at the Dubusson table. Even my mother had to admit that. Eating to the Dubussons was a religion. The manner in which they attacked their food, the obvious relish with which they consumed it, exuded a kind of reverence. But I imagined that was a trait of the French in general rather than in particular. I was sure Monsieur Foucard was a typical Frenchman in that respect, but on that night he seemed far more interested in the company than the food.

My mother said: “You must tell us more about this fascinating subject, Monsieur Foucard.”

“If you insist, Madame,” he replied.

“I do!” she replied with an upward smile at him.

“At all costs Madame must be obeyed.”

And, of course, what he wanted more than anything else was to talk of his business and when it was at the request of such an elegant and attractive woman he was delighted.

He talked; and I admit it was interesting. I learned a great deal not only about the manufacture of perfume but its history. He was certainly knowledgeable on his subject and he talked of what perfumes the ancient Egyptians had used and he bemoaned the fact that at the present day perfume was not used to the same extent.

“But, my dear lady, we shall work on that. The presentation has been neglected. Things must look good, must they not, to please the eyes, and who is more insistent on that than the ladies? We are presenting them in such a way that they are irresistible. What is more delightful than a fragrant perfume?”

My mother laughed and halted him in his flow. “You speak too fast for me sometimes, Monsieur Foucard. You must remember that I am such a novice at your language.”

“Madame, I never heard my language more delightfully spoken.”

“You are as great a flatterer as a parfumeur.” She tapped his hand playfully, which made him laugh.

“I am going to ask a great favour,” he declared.

“I am not sure whether I shall be able to grant it,” she replied coquettishly.

“You must or I shall be desolate.”

She leaned towards him, putting her ear close to his lips.

He said: “I am going to ask you to allow me to send you a flagon of my very special creation. It is Muguet …”

“Muguet!” I cried. “We call that lily of the valley.”

“Lillee of the vallee,” he repeated, and my mother laughed immoderately.

“Madame is like a lily. It is the perfume I would choose for her.”

I felt that the evening was being given over to this flirtation between him and my mother. But no one minded. The kindhearted Dubussons liked to see people enjoying themselves; the doctor was intent on his food and that was enough for him. As for the Claremonts, they were delighted. They were greatly in awe of the important Monsieur Foucard and I guessed they relied on him to buy quantities of their . essences. The Dubussons were also delighted to see their guests taking over the burden of entertaining each other and making a very good job of it.

My mother and Monsieur Foucard were clearly getting more satisfaction from the situation than anyone.

We sat over dinner sampling the wines. Monsieur Foucard knew a great deal about them, but it was obvious that his real interest was in perfume.

There were signs of regret from Monsieur Foucard when the evening came to an end.

Effusively he thanked Madame and Monsieur Dubusson. The Claremonts exuded satisfaction and when Monsieur Foucard heard that my mother and I were travelling home in one of the Dubusson carriages he insisted on accompanying us.

This he did to my mother’s immense satisfaction.

The evening had been a triumph for her.

Monsieur Foucard kissed first my hand and then my mother’s— lingering over hers and looking into her eyes, he told her that he deeply regretted he must leave the next day for Paris.

“Perhaps I shall be returning,” he said, still holding her hand.

“I hope that may be so,” replied my mother earnestly, “but I have no doubt that you will find this little village somewhat dull after the exciting places and people you must be meeting all the time.”

He looked very solemn. “Madame,” he said, placing his hand on his heart with an elaborate gesture to indicate his complete sincerity, “I assure you I have never enjoyed an evening as I have this one.”

Everton was waiting for my mother and I heard their excited conversation going on into the early hours of the morning.

I lay in bed thinking of the evening and its significance.

I cannot stay here much longer, I thought. I must get away.

For days there was talk of that evening and that amusing, intelligent man of the world, Monsieur Foucard. The Claremonts offered the information that he was one of the most wealthy distributors in France. He owned a large exporting business and numerous shops all over the country.

It was evidently a great honour to them that he had decided to spend a night under their roof; and how fortunate it was that his stay had coincided with the Dubusson dinner party!

My mother’s high spirits began to wilt after a day or so, and then a magnificent flagon of perfume arrived, “For the most beautiful lily of them all.”

That kept her happy for several days.

Christmas would soon be with us.

The Dubussons had asked us to spend the day with them and we had accepted.

My mother recalled past Christmases, which reduced her to even greater melancholy, and I promised myself that after Christmas I should definitely go to Cornwall. There I would be able to talk sensibly to Cousin Mary and discuss with her the possibility of doing something to earn money. I thought momentarily of Jamie McGill. Perhaps I could keep bees. Was it possible to make a little money that way? Jamie would be glad to teach me. Although I had enough money to live frugally it would be useful to earn money to augment my income. I did not want to go to London for there I should have to see Olivia.

At the beginning of November I went into the town to buy a few Christmas presents. I would need something for the Dubussons who were going to be our hosts for the day, and there were my mother, Everton, Marie and Jacques.

There was not a great deal of choice in the shops and I quickly made my purchases and went into the auberge where I was well known by now. There were no longer tables outside, so I sat in a room with windows looking out on the square, and there I ordered a glass of wine.

As I was drinking this a man came in and sat down quite near me. There was something very familiar about him. I stared at him. I must be dreaming. I had imagined him so often that for a few moments I could not really believe my eyes.

He had risen and was coming towards me. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, rather lean, with a somewhat slouching walk. I felt the colour rush into my face.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but you are English.”

I nodded.

“I think you are … I think you must be …”

I was recovering myself. “You are Mr. Paul Landower. I recognized you at once.”

“And you are Miss Tressidor.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I am so pleased to see you. We met such a long time ago. You were a little girl then.”

“I was fourteen. I didn’t regard myself as little. It’s four years ago actually.”

“Is it really?”

“I remember it clearly.”

“May I sit down?” he asked.

“Please do. Going to Cornwall was a great event in my life. How is your brother?”

“Jago is well, thank you.”

“He and I were quite good friends.”

“He is more your age. A little older in fact. He is doing quite well.”

I wanted to ask about Landower, how they liked living at the farmhouse. But I felt it might be a melancholy subject.

“I’ll call for some more wine,” he said. He leaned his elbows on the table and smiled at me. I felt rising excitement. Here was the man who had occupied my thoughts for so many months until Jeremy Brandon had replaced him. It was a strange coincidence that he should have arrived in France and at the very place where I was staying.

“Are you on holiday here?” I asked.

“No. I had business in Paris and again in Nice. I thought I’d have a look at the country while I was here. These small places are so attractive, are they not? And one gets to know people so much better than one does in the towns.”

“I am staying with my mother,” I said.

He nodded.

“She lives here now. She has been here some years.”

“You like life here?”

“Life is interesting wherever it is.”

“That’s so. It’s a pity everyone does not see it that way.”

“How is Miss Tressidor? She is not a great letter writer so I don’t hear as much as I should like to.”

“She is well, I believe.”

“I forgot your family and hers don’t mingle.”

“They do more now. I believe Miss Tressidor was hoping that you were going to visit her.”

“Did she tell you?”

He nodded.

“I should have gone to see her but my mother was taken ill.”

“She was very disappointed.”

“I shall go to see her one day. How is everything at Landower?”

“Very well.”

“I suppose …”I did not know how to put what I was going to ask, and decided it would be wiser not to talk of it. I said instead: “Where are you staying?”

“In this very auberge.”

“Oh! Have you been here long?”

“I came yesterday.”

“Is it to be a short stay?”

“Oh yes, quite short.”

“Jago must be quite grown-up now. I hope everything really is well with him.”

“Jago will always see that life goes as he wants it.”

“When I was there, there were some people … What was their name? Oh … it was Arkwright.”

“Yes, that’s right. They bought Landower Hall.”

“Oh, they did buy it!” I wanted to ask about Gwennie Arkwright and I wondered how much Paul knew and whether Jago had ever confessed to what had happened in the minstrel’s gallery.

“Yes, but now the family is back.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

“Yes, it came back into the family.”

“That must be a great relief.”

He laughed. “Well, you know, it was the family home for hundreds of years. One feels certain ties.”

“Indeed yes. Jago always said that you would never let it pass right out of the family.”

“Jago had too high an opinion of me.”

“Well, it seems he was right.”

“In that instance … perhaps. But tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?”

“I went away to school after I returned to London, and I came to France in fact.”

“Then you have an impeccable accent, I am sure.”

“I get by.”

“That must be a great help. Do you come into the town often?”

“Yes, quite often. We’re about a mile and a half out.”

“How is your mother?”

“She is not well sometimes.”

“I wonder if you will allow me to call?”

“But of course. She would be delighted. She likes to see people.”

“Then while I’m staying here … if I may …”

“How long will you be here?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps a week. I should not think longer.”

“I daresay there will be a great deal to do at Christmas.”

“There always is on the estate. All the old traditions have to be observed, as you can imagine.”

“I can indeed.”

I glanced at the watch pinned to my bodice.

He said: “You are anxious about the time. May I take you back?”

“Old Jacques, our gardener, is waiting for me with his trap.”

“Then I’ll take you to him. And … tomorrow … may I call?”

“Yes,” I said. “We should like that.” And I gave him details of our address and how to find us.

Jacques was waiting with some impatience. It was unlike me not to be on time.

Paul held my hand firmly in his as he said goodbye.

I returned his gaze and felt happier than I had since I had read that cruel letter of Jeremy’s.

My mother was excited at the prospect of a visitor. He came in the morning and sat in the courtyard with me while an excited Marie prepared the dejeuner.

The midday meal was usually the biggest of the day as it was in most French households. My mother thought it most uncivilized to eat large quantities at midday; dinner was the great social occasion with her.

However, Paul was asked to luncheon.

My mother received him very graciously. His manner towards her was courteous but a little aloof. He was no Monsieur Foucard to be bowled over by her charms. She adapted her style to suit him and I marvelled at her expertise. Handling men and adjusting herself to what she believed would attract them was one of her obvious social assets.

As she was quite interested in Cousin Mary, of whom she had heard so much when she was married to Robert Tressidor, Cornwall, the life there and the two great houses made a long topic of conversation.

“I hear you have been quite unwell,” he said solicitously.

“Oh, Mr. Landower, don’t let’s talk of my boring ailments,” she said, and went on to talk of them at some length.

He listened sympathetically.

He turned to me. “Miss Tressidor, I remember when you stayed in Cornwall, you did a great deal of riding with my brother. Do you ride here?”

“Alas, no. I haven’t a horse.”

“I believe I could hire horses. Would you care to show me the countryside if I could do this?”

“I should like it very much.”

“Caroline dear,” put in my mother. “Do you think it’s safe?”

“Safe, Mama? I’m perfectly safe on a horse.”

“But a foreign horse, dear.”

I laughed and saw that Paul was smiling.

“Horses don’t consider nationality in the same way as we do, Mama. They are much the same the world over.”

“But in a foreign country!”

“I should take care that no harm came to your daughter, Mrs. Tressidor,” said Paul.

“I am sure you would. But I should be so anxious …”

I understood the way her mind was working. Much as she liked the monotony of her days to be relieved by the advent of visitors she was a little wary of Paul Landower. Every man she saw she assessed as a possible husband or lover; and it was quite clear that he was making no plans which involved her. Therefore, she reasoned, I must be the target of his aspirations; and she did not want me to go to him any more than to Cousin Mary. I could see the speculation in her eyes.

I had allowed her to prevent my going to Cornwall, but she should not stop my riding with Paul. The thought of riding with him filled me with ecstatic pleasure.

I said: “Do you think you really would be able to hire horses?”

“I’m certain of it,” he said. “As a matter of fact I have already asked at the auberge. I have one bespoke, as it were. I am sure there will be no difficulty in getting another.”

“I shall look forward to it.”

After lunch I showed him a little of the countryside. I met Monsieur Dubusson who insisted on our going into the chateau to sample the wine his son had produced in his vineyard in Burgundy. Madame Dubusson greeted us with delight. They were very kindly people and already scented a romance. It was embarrassing in a way and yet I knew it came from the kindliness of their hearts and that they believed it was no life for a young girl—even though it might be her duty—to look after a mother who from time to time lapsed into invalidism.

Afterwards I introduced Paul to the Claremonts for, having included the Dubussons, I dared not leave them out. There was a great deal of talk about the flowers they produced and the essences they distilled; and they were very gratified to explain to a newcomer. From time to time the language became too fast and furious for Paul and I had the pleasure of translating.

As we were leaving Madame Claremont said: “By the way, Monsieur Foucard is coming for the Christmas holiday. Oh, he will not stay here. We are not equipped for such as he is … not for more than one night. He is used to so much comfort. He will stay at the auberge in the town.”

“Tell him I thoroughly recommend it,” said Paul.

After we left the Claremonts we walked through the lanes and talked of the countryside and the Dubussons and Claremonts, the difference between the French and the English; and that seemed to me an enchanted day.

When I said goodbye to him he held my hand firmly and said: “Tomorrow morning. Say about ten o’clock. We’ll go off somewhere and we’ll find some little auberge where we’ll stop for luncheon. How’s that?”

I said it sounded perfect.

“Tomorrow then.”

He stepped back, took off his hat and bowed; blissfully I went into the house aware of Marie peering through the kitchen window.

When I came into the hall, Marie was there. She said: “Oh, he is a very grand gentleman. So tall … He reminds me of mon petit soldat.”

I suppose that was about the greatest compliment she could pay.

Later I heard her singing dolefully: “Ou t’en vas-tu, petit soldat.” It was clear that Paul had found favour with Marie and Jacques as well as the Dubussons and Claremonts.

It was not the case with my mother. I guessed she had discussed him with Everton.

“So you are going riding tomorrow,” she said as we ate that evening.

“Yes, Mama.”

“I shall be very worried.”

“I don’t think so, Mama. You’ll forget all about it as soon as we’ve gone.”

“Caroline, how can you say such a thing!”

She saw what she called my mulish look setting about my lips and she knew that I was determined to go.

She said: “There’s something mysterious about him.”

“How mysterious?”

“Those dark looks.”

“Do you think all people with dark hair are mysterious?”

“I’m not referring to his hair, Caroline. I know men.”

“Yes, Mama, I’m sure you do.”

“I should hate to see you make a terrible mistake.”

“What sort of mistake?”

“To rush into marriage.”

“Oh Mama, please! A man appears. He is a stranger in a strange land. He meets a fellow compatriot whom he saw once some years ago, he is friendly—and you talk of marriage!”

“He seemed persistent … hiring horses.”

“It’s nothing but a friendly gesture.”

She looked pathetically down at her plate and I thought she was going to weep.

Poor Mama, I thought. She visualizes lonely evenings—no piquet, no one but Everton to talk to of past triumphs. And Everton is years older than she is. I am young. She is terrified of my going away. How strange that when I was a child she had no time to spend with me; now I am grown-up she cannot bear me to leave her for a day.

Then suddenly I remembered. The excitement of the day had completely driven this important piece of news out of my mind.

“I saw Madame Claremont today. She told me Monsieur Foucard is coming here for Christmas.”

The change in her was miraculous.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, he is staying at the auberge.”

“I’m not surprised. One could hardly expect a man like that to stay at the Claremonts’.”

“I daresay,” I said archly, “that we shall be seeing something of him.”

“It may well be,” she answered; and I knew she was already planning her wardrobe.

My words had had the desired effect. There was no further mention of my day’s riding.

It was a day I was to remember for a long time.

The sun was bright although there was a sharp wind. It was good to be in a riding habit again.

I went to say goodbye to my mother before I left.

She was sitting up in bed sipping the hot chocolate which Everton had brought to her just as she had done each morning in England. Everton was seated on a chair making lists of clothes.

The Christmas wardrobe, I presumed!

What luck that Monsieur Foucard had saved the situation and made everything so much smoother! I had been determined to have my day but it was pleasant to achieve it with the minimum of friction.

I kissed her and she said: “Have a good day,” almost absent-mindedly.

Paul was waiting with the horses.

“A little chestnut mare for you,” he said. “She’s a bit frisky but I told them you were an expert.”

“She’s lovely,” I told him.

“Now you know the countryside, you’d better decide where we shall go.”

“I only know the immediate environs. I never before had a chance to get away. Shall we go into the mountains?”

“That would be very interesting.”

What joy it was for me to be on a horse, and I had to admit that my companion added considerably to my pleasure. It was almost like one of those dreams come true. He might not look exactly like the knight in shining armour whom I had visualized in my girlhood, but he was Paul Landower, the hero of my imaginings.

He talked about Cornwall just as Jago used to, about the estate and the house and Tressidor too. But for a great deal of the time we were silent for the road was so narrow that sometimes we had to go in single file.

At length we came to the foothills of the mountains where we paused to admire the grandeur of the scenery. On the other side of these Maritime Alps was the beautiful Mediterranean Sea.

“The air is like wine,” he said, “which reminds me we are going to find that little auberge. Are you hungry?”

“Getting that way,” I said.

“It’ll be uphill for a while. Madame at my auberge told me that she can recommend La Pomme d’Or which we ought to find fairly easily. She says the damson pie is the best she ever tasted and has made me swear a solemn oath to try it. I dare not return and tell her I have not done so.”

“Then it is a matter of honour for us to find La Pomme d’Or. I wonder why it is so called. After the famous golden apple which Paris gave to Aphrodite, as the fairest of women, I suppose, but I wonder how it got here.”

“I fancy,” he said, “that that is one of the mysteries we shall never solve.”

The scenery was becoming awesome—mountains stretching as far as we could see; we passed gorges and silver waterfalls and streams trickling down the slopes.

“I hope the horses are sure-footed,” said Paul.

“I daresay they’ve been in the mountains before.”

“It must be getting quite late now.”

“Time for luncheon. We should find the golden apple soon.”

We came upon it unexpectedly. There it stood, white and glittering in the sunshine, built against the side of the mountain and facing a gap through which there was a glimpse of the sea.

We left our horses in the stable to be cared for and went into the dining salon.

We were welcomed warmly, especially when Paul mentioned that Madame at the auberge where he was staying had recommended La Pomme d’Or.

“She told us about the damson pie,” he said. “It is hoped that it is available.”

Madame was large and plump and I soon realized that she possessed in an even greater degree than usual that reverence for food which was characteristic of her nation. She put her hands on her hips, and shook with laughter.

“Believe it or not, Monsieur, Madame,” she said, “I cook the most wonderful dishes …” She put her fingers to her lips and threw a kiss to those revered objects. “My langoustines are magnificent. Crevettes … gigot of lamb … and such tarts as you never have seen … but always it is my damson pie.”

“It must be gratifying, Madame,” I said, “to be so famed for such an achievement.”

She lifted her shoulders and her eyes sparkled as she told us what she could give us.

Hot s6up was brought in. I had no idea what it contained, but it was delicious. But I was living in an exalted state and anything I imagine would have tasted like ambrosia.

It is the mountain air, I told myself. That … and Paul Landower.

I studied him intently. My mother had said he had dark looks … secret looks. Yes, there was an element of that. I did not know him. Not as I had known Jago … or Jeremy. But had I known Jeremy? I could not have been more surprised when I had received that letter jilting me.

No, I had not known Jeremy. I was gullible where people were concerned. But I was changing. Once I would have believed my mother wanted me to stay with her because she loved me. Now I saw clearly that she only wanted me to relieve the boredom a little. If someone else could do that, I might go out for the day and she would not mind in the least.

I would be more prepared now for people to act in an unexpected way; and there was something secret, mysterious about this man. I longed to know what it was and I was excited at the prospect of discovering.

After soup there was lamb served in a way I had never had it before; it was delicious; and the wine, which was proudly shown to Paul before it was poured out, was nectar.

I said: “I shall have no room for the famous damson pie.”

At last it came. Madame told us that during the season she set one of her maids doing nothing else but preserving damsons for several weeks.

She served it with her special garnishing and we both agreed that it came up to expectation.

Paul was amused to see me counting the stones.

“Ah,” he said, “that looks significant. Tell me, what is your fate?”

“There are eight stones. They indicate whom I shall marry. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.”

“You have too many.”

“Oh no. I just start again. Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief. Oh dear! I’m destined for the thief. I don’t like that at all. I think I’ll try something else.”

I began to quote:

“He loves me

He don’t

He’ll have me

He won’t.

He would if he could

But he can’t

So he won’t.”

Paul was laughing. “You’ve one left over.”

“So I start again. He loves me. Well, that’s a little more satisfactory. But if he is a thief I’m not very happy about my future.”

“You should be,” he said seriously. “I have an idea that you are the sort of person who will be happy and make others happy.”

“What a charming assessment of my character. I can’t imagine how you can be so knowledgeable in such a short time.”

“There are things one knows … instinctively.”

I thought: I am falling in love with him. What a fool I am. I have just been bitterly deceived. I have vowed I would never fall in love again, and here I am ready to begin it all once more. Oh, but I was never really in love with Jeremy. It was infatuation. This is different. Besides, wasn’t I always in love with Paul Landower?

He was watching me intently. “Your eyes are a brilliant green.”

“I know.”

“They glitter like emeralds.”

“I like the comparison. We had a cook once who used to say ‘Blue eyes for beauty, brown eyes for cherry pie’ (which I believe in her eyes was another way of saying beauty) ‘green eyes for greedy guts.’ That must have been because I had filched some titbit from the table which I believe, at an early age, I was inclined to do.”

“You are revealed as a green-eyed monster.”

“That means jealousy.”

“Are you jealous?”

“I think I might well be.”

“Well, it’s natural.”

“I think I should be a veritable fiend.”

“I can imagine how those eyes would flash. It would be rather like facing the gorgon.”

“We are getting very classical this afternoon. It all began with the golden apple, I suppose.”

“How do you feel?”

“Replete.”

“So do I. I hope they haven’t fed the horses as well as they have fed us or they’ll be too lethargic to move.”

“Is that how you feel?”

He nodded. “I should like to stay here for a long time.”

“It’s delightful in the mountains.”

“Awe-inspiring. I am glad I found you. I shall report my findings to Miss Tressidor. When can I tell her you will come to see her?”

“Soon. After Christmas … if I can get away.”

“Your mother will try to stop your going to Cornwall.”

“She is very frustrated here. She misses the old life. I suppose I help a bit.”

He smiled and continued to study me.

Our hostess came in and we told her that her damson pie was beyond our expectations and they had been very high. We would extoll its virtues to all those with whom we came into contact.

She looked well pleased and told us not to hurry but to take a look round. “The view’s well worth seeing half a mile on. That’s a regular beauty spot. You have a good view of the gorge there.”

We came out to the stables. “We must not forget,” said Paul, “that it gets dark early. Alas, I think we should be wending our way homewards. This delightful day is coming to an end.”

We rode in silence for a while. The path was uneven; we went down, then up, and there were a great many stones underfoot, so we had to pick our way with care. Paul was riding on ahead of me as the path was so narrow.

I was not sure how it happened. My horse must have tripped over a stone; in any case she side-stepped and caught me unaware. At one moment I was following Paul quite serenely and the next I was being thrown out of the saddle.

I cried out just as I saw the ground coming up to meet me. Then I lost consciousness.

From a long way off I could hear my name being called.

“Caroline … Caroline … oh, my God, Caroline …”

He was kneeling beside me. I felt his lips on my forehead and I opened my eyes and saw his face close to mine.

In that moment I felt nothing but happiness. It was the tender way in which he said my name; it was the deep concern in his voice; it was the fact that he had kissed me.

“What … happened?” I asked.

“You fell.”

“I-I don’t understand …”

“You’re here with me in the mountains. Something happened. I didn’t see. I was going on ahead. How do you feel? You can’t have done much harm, we were only ambling. See if you can stand.”

He helped me to my feet, holding me tightly.

“How’s that?”

“All right … I think.”

“Good.” He spoke with great relief. “I don’t think you’ve broken anything.”

I clutched him, feeling dizzy. The mountains swayed ahead of me.

“You fell on your head but your hat would have saved you. I don’t think you should attempt to ride back.”

I was beginning to grasp the situation and the first thing I felt was shame. I had prided myself on my horsemanship and here I was coming a cropper when I was only walking my horse.

Paul said: “I’m going to get you back to the auberge.”

“Oh no. We must go home. It’ll soon be dark.”

“No,” he said authoritatively. “I should be afraid for you to attempt that long ride. I think not much harm has been done but one can’t be sure. I am going to get you back to the auberge and send for a doctor to have a look at you. Don’t worry, we can get a message sent to your mother.”

“I’m sure I’m all right.”

“I feel sure you are too, but I’m not taking risks.”

“Oh dear, you must think me very stupid. I’m a good rider really.”

“I know you are.” He picked me up in his arms and sat me on his horse. “There! We’ll go back. We’ll be there shortly.”

And leading the two horses, he took us back to La Pomme d’Or.

Madame was deeply concerned. Yes, they had two rooms which were kept ready for travellers. Yes, she could send for a doctor, and yes, one of the stable-boys could take a message to my mother.

“There,” said Paul. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I feel so foolish.”

“Look at it like this. It gives us a little more time in this really rather attractive place.”

He had a certain effect on me. I was able to cast aside my anxieties about my mother’s reaction to the situation. I was sore and a little lightheaded, but when the doctor came he said that I had broken no bones; he had left a little liniment for the bruises and a sedative which I was to take before settling down for the night if I found sleep difficult.

He was sure I should feel a little stiff in the morning and might experience a few twinges of discomfort, but apart from that I should soon be perfectly all right. But I should rest until the effect of the shock wore off.

I was given a very pleasant room with a view over the mountains. Paul had the next room. There was a balcony with French windows leading onto it, and his windows opened onto the same balcony.

Darkness came. Oil lamps were lighted and the scenery in the glow of a faint crescent moon was like something from another world.

The mountain air was crisp and cold and our hostess gave me extra blankets. She said I should need them for the nights were very cold in the mountains.

I can remember very vividly every waking moment of that strange night.

Paul and I took supper together in my room. There was soup and cold chicken served with a delicious salad; and we asked if there was more of the far-famed damson pie.

Paul studied the stones on my plate and asked: “What have you got this time?”

There were six stones.

“Poor man,” I said. “An improvement on the last. But the other isn’t so good. Last time he loved me. This time he can’t.”

“Your fate has changed within a few hours. I shouldn’t have thought that possible, would you?”

“I suppose in life everything is possible.”

He looked at me steadily and said nothing.

The stable-boy had returned with the news that he had delivered the note to my mother and impressed on her that there was nothing to worry about. I should be home next day.

The doctor had been right about the twinges. Some of the bruises were painful. I still felt somewhat lightheaded, but I did wonder if that was due to all that was happening.

I kept thinking of coming out of my stupor and seeing Paul’s face. I could feel the touch of his lips on my forehead. I thought, The world is a happy place after all. And I was glad that Jeremy Brandon had jilted me. My experience with him was to be welcomed rather than deplored.

I felt gloriously free to be happy.

And I was happy that night. I marvelled that out of disaster could come such pleasure. If I had not tumbled from my horse I should now be playing piquet at home or listening to my mother’s account of what she would wear for the Christmas festivities, for she would have forgotten her fears about a possible marriage for me in the prospect of further flirtation with Monsieur Foucard.

So we sat in the lamplight and we talked. I told him quite a lot about myself, about the Jubilee and our visit to Waterloo Place and its consequences. I think he already knew that I was not Robert Tressidor’s daughter. I wondered if Cousin Mary had told him. If so, the animosity between the two families must have diminished considerably. I hesitated about telling him of Jeremy Brandon, but I found myself blurting that out too.

“So you see it was the money he thought would be mine that he wanted. When he knew I wasn’t going to get that, he didn’t want me.”

“I see,” he said. “Perhaps it was as well that you found out in time.”

“That’s what I tell myself. But it is hard to see these things when they happen. And now he is going to marry my sister. I often wonder what I should do about that.”

“Does she want to marry him?”

“Oh yes … very much. She was in love with him before I knew him. I didn’t realize that at the time, but I guessed there was someone. It turned out to be him. I wish I could make her see she must not marry him.”

“That would not make her very happy.”

“No, but he is marrying her for her money.”

“She wants him, you say.”

“Oh yes. But he is deceiving her. I can well imagine him. He will tell her how much he loves her. He will urge her to marry him, explaining that he really loved her all the time … even when he was engaged to me. I can’t believe it is right for me to say nothing. My mother thinks it is all right. In her world that is normal conduct.”

“In a lot of people’s worlds, it would be.”

“I despise it.”

There was silence in the room. I could hear the faint sound of water rushing down the mountainside.

I said suddenly, “Do you think I should warn Olivia?”

He shook his head. “Let her be happy. It is what she wants. It is what he wants. She knows he was engaged to you. There is nothing new you can tell her. It must have been very hurtful to you.”

“Oh, I’ve got over it now.”

“I’m glad.”

He reached for my hand and pressed it.

“I’m also glad that you are not badly hurt,” he went on. “When I turned and saw you on the ground … well, I cannot describe my feelings.”

I laughed happily. “I was thinking that out of mishaps sometimes the nicest things come about.”

“You mean this … here. Are you enjoying it?”

“So much … more than I have enjoyed anything … for a long time.”

“Do you know,” he said, “I can say the same.”

We smiled at each other and some understanding seemed to pass between us, some fellow feeling.

I never want this to end, I thought.

We sat there in silence and that seemed as wonderful as when we talked. A clock striking eleven broke in on the silence.

“The doctor said you were to go to bed early,” said Paul. “I’m afraid I’ve been forgetting the time.”

“I forgot it too,” I replied. “Surely that clock can’t be right.”

“It is, I’m afraid. You must sleep now. You’ll feel absolutely right in the morning, I feel sure.”

“How quiet it is here! It seems so strange to be in the mountains.”

“You’re not afraid?”

I shook my head vigorously.

“There’s no need to be. I’m next door … to offer protection should you need it. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” I answered.

He leaned forward suddenly and kissed me on the brow just as he had when I was coming into consciousness as I lay on the road.

I smiled at him. I thought he was going to say something, but he appeared to change his mind and went out.

I knew that I should not find sleep easily. I was not sure that I wanted to. I wanted to lie in my bed and look out over the mountains and go over everything that had happened on this wonderful day.

If I had not fallen from my horse I should not be here now. If Jeremy had not jilted me, this day would never have happened. Perhaps something good always comes out of evil. It was a comforting thought.

Was I in love? Perhaps. But I must remember that my emotions were easily aroused. I had adored Captain Carmichael. Then Jeremy had come and I had been over ready to fall in love with him. And even before that I had made a hero of Paul Landower, and he had figured in my dreams ever since … apart from the time when I had been obsessed by Jeremy.

Could I really trust my feelings? I suppose people would say I was too young—and immature with it.

One thing I was sure of. I was happy. I would go to Cornwall soon. There I should see Paul often. Our relationship would strengthen. I was going to be happy.

I dozed and awoke with a start. I was not alone. I lay still, my eyes only half open, my heart beating wildly. The room was full of moonlight, and there was a shadow at the French window.

I knew that it was Paul who was standing there. He was looking in at me.

I dared not let him see that I was awake. I did not know what would happen if he did. He had his hand on the door. I thought, he is coming to me.

I felt a great yearning for him to do so. I was almost willing him to come.

But I lay there, my eyes half closed, feigning sleep.

And still he stood there and made no move.

I repressed a desire to call him. How could I welcome him into my room at that hour of the night? If I did it could surely be for one purpose.

I must not … and yet I wanted him to come in.

I could hear my heart hammering beneath the bedclothes. I had shut my eyes tightly … waiting.

I was aware that the shadow had disappeared. I opened my eyes. He had gone.

I slept little but my sleeplessness was not due to my fall. He said nothing about the night, but just asked how I had slept. I replied: “Intermittently.”

He nodded. “After such a shock you would expect to.”

I wanted to ask him, “Why did you stand outside my window last night?” But I said nothing and he seemed different by morning light. The intimacy of the previous evening had gone, he was aloof almost.

He said: “We must have breakfast and set off right away. Your mother will be anxious. How do you feel about mounting the chestnut?”

“Perfectly all right. It was my carelessness really. I should have been more watchful. The poor creature was plagued by that stony path.”

“You’re too good a horsewoman to be bothered by a little spill, I’m sure.”

We had the usual French breakfast of coffee and brioche with lots of creamy butter and honey; and apart from a certain stiffness I did feel normal.

He regarded me with some concern. “All the dizziness has gone?”

I nodded.

“You’ll have those bruises to remind you for some time, I should imagine.”

“I shall remember after they have gone.”

“We’ll neither of us forget, shall we?”

“Oh, will you remember too?”

“But of course.”

He went on ahead as the road was narrow and very soon we had left the mountains behind us.

Everton came to the door when we arrived.

“Your mother has been so anxious,” she said.

“You had a message, did you not? The stable-boy from the auberge

“Yes, yes,” said Everton, “but your mother has been most upset.”

“Miss Tressidor has been upset also,” said Paul.

He had dismounted and helped me down.

“Would you like me to wait and see your mother?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I think I’d better go in alone.”

“Au revoir,” he said.

He took my hand and held it firmly while he looked into my face with a certain inscrutable expression.

Then he went off with the two horses.

My mother was sitting up in bed, the empty chocolate cup on the table beside her.

“Caroline! My child! I’ve been so worried.”

“I hoped the message would explain.”

“My dear child, staying out like that … with that man!”

“I had an accident, Mama.”

“That’s what they said.”

“Are you suggesting that there was no accident? I’ll show you my bruises.”

I wondered then what tales she had made up to tell her husband when she had gone to see my father. I was becoming very unsympathetic towards her. I told myself I was overwrought. I had had an accident, but it was not of that I was thinking so much as the thought of Paul standing outside my window. I was sure he had wanted to come in and that he had been grappling with his conscience. I wondered what his feelings would have been had he known that I had wanted him to come. I was very innocent and ignorant in the ways of the world, and I should very quickly have betrayed my feelings to him.

My mother was saying: “What will people think?”

“What people?”

“Everton, Marie, Jacques, the Dubussons … everybody.”

“Everton will think what you tell her to and Marie and Jacques what I tell them. The Dubussons and the Claremonts would have no uncharitable feelings about anyone. As for everyone else, Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

“You always try to be clever. Olivia was never like that.”

I said: “Please, Mama. I am tired. I had a fall from a horse and I want to go to my room to rest. I just came to see you to let you know that I am back.”

“Where is Mr. Landower?”

“He left. He has taken the horses with him.”

“Well, I hope no one saw him and that the servants don’t gossip.”

“I don’t mind if they do, Mama. I have told you what happened and if people choose to disbelieve that, then they must.”

“You are getting dictatorial, Caroline,” she said.

“Perhaps I have been here too long and you would like me to go,” I retorted.

Her face crumbled. “How can you say that? You know I should hate you to go. The very thought of it makes me ill.”

“Then,” I said coldly, “you must not make me want to go, Mama.”

She looked at me in a certain surprise and said: “You’re getting very hard, Caroline.”

I thought: Yes, I believe I am.

That afternoon Paul came over to see me.

I was glad that there was no one about. Marie had gone into the town with Jacques to buy some stores and my mother was resting—and I presumed Everton was too.

I heard him ride up and went out to find him dismounting from his horse.

His first words were: “How are you?”

“Quite all right really.”

“Are you sure? No after-effects?”

“None—only the expected bruises.”

“I am so relieved. And now I have come to say goodbye. I am leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.” My disappointment must have been obvious. “Come through into the garden,” I went on. “It’s quite warm in the sun.”

We went through to the walled garden.

“I didn’t expect I should leave so hurriedly,” he said. “I was hoping we could have done more excursions into the mountains.”

“With happier results,” I added, trying to speak lightly.

“That was quite an experience, wasn’t it?”

“Were they all right about the horses?”

“Oh yes. They said there are hazards in the mountains for people who are not used to them. May I tell Miss Tressidor that you will be coming to Cornwall soon?”

“Tell her that I want to come very much. I was all prepared to before you know, but my mother became ill.”

“And you think she might become ill again if you made plans to leave?” He stopped short. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said that,” he went on. “But you must not stay here too long, you know.”

“It is so difficult to know what to do. I shall discover though.”

“I will tell Miss Tressidor that you want very much to visit her and will do so at the earliest possible moment. May I give that message to her?”

“Please do.”

“I should so much look forward to seeing you again.”

“Yes, it would be pleasant.”

“I wish I could stay longer.”

We were silent for a while as we walked to the seat set against the stone wall.

I sat down and he was beside me.

“What time do you leave?” I asked.

“At the crack of dawn. It’s such a long journey and the train will only take me as far as Paris. I’ll have to change there and then there is the crossing and the long journey to Cornwall.”

We sat in silence for a while, but I had the impression that he was trying to say something to me.

I said: “Would you like some tea? My mother is resting. She usually does at this hour in the afternoon. Everton will take her tea at four o’clock.”

“No … no thanks. I just came to see you. I couldn’t just go off without saying goodbye.”

“Of course not. It was good of you to think of me.”

“But you know I think of you! I have … over the last years. But then I thought of you as a child with flying dark hair and green eyes. You haven’t really changed very much. Do you remember when we first met?”

“Yes. In the train. You detected my name on my bag in the luggage rack.”

He laughed. “Yes, and there was a dragon guarding you.”

“She still guards my sister and I expect will until her marriage.”

“But you escaped from your guardians.”

“Yes. Life has its compensations.”

“You’re a person who would value freedom.”

“Very much.”

“You are not in the least conventional.”

“Certain conventions have come about because they make life easier. I think I approve of them. It is just the useless ones which I find restricting.”

He looked at me earnestly. “You are very wise.”

That made me laugh. “If you really mean that you must be the only person who thinks so.”

He said: “Yes, I do believe it.”

I felt he was on the point of saying something very serious to me. I waited eagerly, but the moment passed.

A cold wind had blown up and I shivered.

“You’re cold,” he said. “I should not keep you out of doors.”

“Come into the house.”

“Thank you, but I won’t. There are certain things I have to do. I just came over to tell you I was leaving.”

Desolation swept over me. When should I see him again? I wondered.

If he wanted to see me, perhaps he would come here.

He turned to face me. “I should go now.”

I nodded.

“I shall never forget,” he went on. “The mountains were beautiful, weren’t they? There was a sense of being apart there … away from everything. Did you feel that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I felt that … well, never mind. I shall remember it … the room, the balcony … and the damson pie. What was the rhyme?”

“Rich man, poor man …”

“No, not that one, the other one.”

“Oh … ‘He loves me He don’t He’ll have me He won’t

He would if he could But he can’t So he won’t.’ “

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Fancy your remembering.”

“I shall go on remembering.”

“It was a pity I was so stupid as to fall off that nice little chestnut.”

“At least it made our outing longer. Compensations, remember? Caroline … Let’s drop Miss Tressidor. It’s ridiculous after … after …”

“Our adventure in the mountains.”

“You will come to Cornwall?”

“When I can.”

“You must, you know. It’s a mistake to let oneself be used. There. Forget I said that. I just hope that you will come.”

“I will,” I promised.

“Before long?”

“Before long,” I repeated.

He was looking at me intently now. “There is so much I want to say to you.”

“Then say it.”

He shook his head. “Not now. There isn’t time.”

“Are you in such a hurry?”

“I think I should go.”

I held out my hand to him. He took it and kissed it.

“Au revoir, Caroline.”

“Au revoir,” I replied.

He looked at me appealingly and then suddenly he put his arms round me and held me tightly against him. He kissed me—not gently on the brow this time but on the lips and I sensed a sudden passion that was under an iron control. I could not help responding.

He released me with apparent reluctance.

“I must go. You see … I must go.”

“Goodbye,” I said.

“Au revoir,” he insisted.

I walked with him out to his horse. He mounted slowly and rode away.

I stood watching him, but he did not turn to wave goodbye.

A deep depression set in after he had gone. I wondered when I should see him again. I certainly would if I went to Cornwall. I would go to Cornwall. He had said: “Don’t let yourself be used,” and I knew to what he was referring.

I would speak to Everton.

My mother was clearly delighted that he had left. She dismissed him from her thoughts and gave herself up to the joys of contemplating the coming visit of Monsieur Foucard.

December had come. Christmas was imminent. Marie had decorated the house with holly and mistletoe and Jacques had brought in what he called the Noel log.

It seemed to me that we were celebrating the advent of Monsieur Foucard rather than the coming of Christmas.

He arrived a week before Christmas Day. He had his own carriage and his manservant and they had taken rooms in the auberge where Paul had stayed.

One of the first things he did was visit us. The household was in a flutter, but my mother was calm, knowing that others would have to take care of the arrangements and all she had to do was receive him, look beautiful and indulge in a mannered flirtation; and that she could do very well.

She was lying on a sofa in the small salon when he arrived. She was dressed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin and looked at least ten years younger than she actually was.

He came with an armful of hothouse flowers. I was present but he had eyes only for her. He sat by the sofa and they chatted vivaciously; after a while I made an excuse and left them together.

That was the beginning. His carriage was at the house every day. He took her out for drives in the country, to luncheon, to dinner. He dined with us.

“You must put up with our simple ways, cher Alphonse …” (They were on Christian-name terms by this time.) “Once I could have entertained you in a manner worthy of you. It is different now …”

She looked so pathetic and helpless that Alphonse’s ever-ready chivalry must certainly come rushing to the fore.

I liked him. In spite of his bombast and flaunting of his worldly goods, there was a simplicity about him. His enthusiasm for his work, his belief in himself, his dedication, his almost boyish susceptibility to my mother’s beauty coupled with his obvious speculation as to how such a beautiful woman could play the gracious hostess to his clients and replace his dead wife … these things endeared him to me.

I think he quite liked me—when he could spare a thought from my mother.

At first my mother was a little anxious because she said I looked older than my years and that made her seem older than she was. “And when you put on that air of knowing everything and talk in that clever-clever way, it makes you seem even older. Men don’t like it, Caroline.”

“If men don’t like me, I shall retaliate by not liking them,” I replied.

“That’s no way to talk. But if you could wear your hair down … instead of piled up in that ridiculous way …”

“Mama, I am nineteen years old, and there is no way of making me less.”

“But it makes me seem old.”

“You’ll never be old.”

She was somewhat mollified, and as Monsieur Foucard did not seem to be aware of my mature looks, she decided to forget them. She tripped about the house now. There was no talk of illness; she even gave up the afternoon rest. The new excitement in her life did her more good than all the ice-pads and lotions and creams for her skin. She glowed.

Christmas came. Most of the entertaining was done by the Dubussons. They had the space and were delighted to play hosts. They loved romance and it was clear that this was brewing between the affluent Monsieur Foucard and the very beautiful Madame Tressidor. The Claremonts were delighted because it was in their territory that the important Monsieur Foucard had found his contentment.

I don’t think any of us were surprised when the announcement was made.

Monsieur Foucard delivered a long speech telling the company that he had been a lonely man since he had become a widower and now he had been given a new lease of life. He would be lonely no longer, for Madame Tressidor had paid him the supreme honour of promising to become his wife.

There was great rejoicing throughout the village, and nowhere more than in our house.

My mother was in a state of perpetual excitement. She talked incessantly of Alphonse’s establishment in Paris and his house in the country near Lyons. He travelled about the country a good deal on business, and she would go with him.

“Bless him, he says he will not let me out of his sight!”

Everton was already talking about the Paris shops.

“They are the leaders in fashion, Madame, say what you will. No others can compete. I shall study them and we shall choose the very best.”

“Oh Caroline,” cried my mother, “I am so happy. Dear Alphonse! He has rescued me. I declare I could not have gone on much longer. I was getting to the end of my tether. It won’t be a grand wedding. Neither of us wants that. After all, it’s not the first time for either of us. There will be a great deal of entertaining later. It’s so fascinating … all that perfume.”

“Mama,” I said, “I am delighted to see you so happy.”

“There is so much to do. I shall keep on this house until I go to Paris. Alphonse thinks we should be married there. What a joy to escape from all this … squalor.”

“It’s hardly that. It’s really a very charming house.”

“Squalor compared with what I had.”

“Everton will go with you?”

“Of course. How could I do without Everton?”

“And Marie … and Jacques … they more or less go with the house. I hope the Dubussons will find good tenants.”

“Of course they will.” She glanced sideways at me. “I suppose you will go and stay with Cousin Mary?”

I couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “Cousin Mary is not really related to me, is she? She is Robert Tressidor’s cousin and he has made it clear that I am no connection of his.”

She was dismayed. “Oh! But you wanted to go!”

I laughed and could not stop myself saying: “You want me to go to Cousin Mary, don’t you, Mama … now.”

“It will do you good and you liked it there. You were so eager to go a little while ago.”

“Yes, as eager as you were to keep me here then and as eager as you are for me to go now.”

She looked stunned.

“I believe you are jealous, Caroline. Oh fancy that! My own daughter!”

“No, Mama,” I said, “I am not jealous. I do not envy you one little bit. I am delighted that you have found Monsieur Foucard. And I shall go to Cousin Mary.”

She laughed a little slyly. “You’ll be able to renew your friendship with that man.”

“You mean Paul Landower?”

She nodded. “Well, you liked him. I must say he went off very abruptly. He’s not a bit like Alphonse.”

“Not a bit,” I agreed.

She smiled complacently. Life was working out well for her.

I could understand her gratitude to Alphonse. I had to admit I shared it. Alphonse was not only my mother’s benefactor; he was mine also.

Although everything was working out so satisfactorily it was not until Easter that the marriage took place. There was a great deal to arrange; shopping to be done; a visit to Paris for my mother and Everton where they could shop to their hearts’ contentment.

I did not accompany them to Paris but remained in the house. There was a certain amount of packing to be done and every day when I woke up it was with the hope that Paul would come. I was indulging in my usual day-dreams. I had let myself imagine that he would ride to the house one day and would tell me that he had come back to see me because he had been unable to stay away. I believed that he had been on the point of saying something important to me when he had left—but for some reason had refrained from doing so.

Perhaps he had thought our acquaintance was too brief. He could not think I was too young now. So I let myself dream.

Therefore I was glad to stay in the house while my mother went to Paris. If he should return I must be there.

The spring had come, and I must say a rather regretful farewell to all the friends I had made. The kind Dubussons, the Claremonts who were so grateful to us for providing their greatest and most important business associate with such joy, to Marie with her memories of le petit soldat and Jacques who had still not succeeded in persuading his widow.

I was sorry to leave them and yet I was longing for complete freedom. I was looking forward to arriving at the station and finding the trap waiting for me. It all came back so vividly—the winding lanes, the lodge with the thatched roof and garden full of flowers and beehives, and Cousin Mary with her cool but staunch affection and her common sense. I wanted to see Jago again—and more than anything I wanted to renew my exciting friendship with Paul Landower.

I had written to Cousin Mary and told her that my mother was about to get married. She wrote back with enthusiasm. I must come as soon as I could.

I had also written to Olivia.

Her wedding would soon take place and she hinted that she would be very happy if I came. But that was something I could not do. Since Paul had come back into my life I felt less bitter about Jeremy—but I did not think I could face seeing him married to my sister.

Olivia understood. Her letters were cautious. She did not want to say too much about her happiness, but it shone through. I sincerely hoped that she would not be disillusioned, but I did not see how she could fail to be.

I went to Paris for my mother’s wedding and I stayed in a hotel with her and Everton for a few days, as Alphonse thought that my mother should not be under his roof until after the ceremony.

Alphonse had not exaggerated; there was no doubt that he was a very wealthy man. As for my mother, she looked younger and more beautiful every day. She was now attired like a lady of fashion and Alphonse was so proud of her that I hoped he would never discover her somewhat shallow and selfish nature.

I decided that I would leave France the day after the ceremony although Alphonse said the house was at my disposal for as long as I wished; and if at any time I wanted to make my home with them, I was welcome.

I thought that very generous of him and told him so.

“My dear, you are the daughter of my dearest wife. This is your home.”

I told him he was charming and I meant it. And I marvelled at my mother’s good fortune.

They went to Italy for their honeymoon. I saw them off on the train, my mother attracting glances of admiration from passers-by and Everton struggling with all the bandboxes, feverishly counting the cases, as happy as my mother to say goodbye to what they called penury.

Affluence suited them both.

I would cross the Channel and take the night train to Cornwall.

At last I was on my way.